On a sudden the thunder of hoofs behind us, and an elderly, aristocratic-looking horseman with an aquiline nose, short grey beard and piercing eyes, gallops up over the deep furrows, followed by three attendants also on horseback. An imposing figure of a man he is, splendidly mounted on a chestnut stallion, with a heavy cloak of dark blue cloth flung across his shoulders, the red crest of a fez just showing through the top of his dark blue turban. An animated conversation ensues between him and the gentleman in red and green. The Chief—for one knows he must be such from his bearing and the sharp ring of his tones—waves a long, thin hand to right and left. The dogari listens respectfully, somewhat crestfallen in appearance (perhaps he was hungry too!). The mounted attendants career away in different directions, one, I learn afterwards, to trace the main body of carriers, the other to find the cook, the third to call for milk and firewood from some neighbouring village. Then the Chief bows low over his horse’s neck, places himself between the dogari and myself, and we proceed once more along the narrow pathway, cut at frequent intervals by small streams, now mostly dry, with precipitous banks that need some negotiating. The courtesy of that grey-bearded old aristocrat—every inch a ruler of men—the Fulani who has become the statesman and the lord over many! He is the Governor, I learn later, of one of the principal districts of Kano province, and he looks it from head to foot. At the approach of every stream, half hidden with tangled creepers, wherever the path is broken or impeded by some natural obstacle, he half turns his horse towards one in warning, then waits on the other side until he is satisfied that the difficulty is overcome. Does the over-hanging branch of some tree threaten a blow to the careless rider? He either breaks it off short in its passage, or, if it be too formidable for that, points with uplifted finger. And when, at last, in an open space a small group under a tree proclaims the much perturbed—his usual condition—cook, busy boiling milk and cocoa, another low bow, and the old gentleman retires at an appropriate distance, turning his back with the politeness required of tradition and custom, but not before another rapid order has been given, and the quite unnecessary attention of clearing a piece of ground where you may conveniently partake of your meal is in process of accomplishment.